


Chenopis

by pointzerothree



Category: Black Swan (2010), The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Horror, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointzerothree/pseuds/pointzerothree
Summary: Black Swan AU. After leaving the Moscow Ballet for reasons he prefers not to think about, Eduardo flies to New York to dance in Sean Parker's strange, avant-garde ballet company. He finds lodgings with Mark, who is talented and fascinating, but clearly very troubled. Slowly, it becomes clear that there's something deeply wrong with the company, and he becomes desperate to extradite Mark from whatever hold it has on him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's not necessary to watch Black Swan to read this. It deals with the same themes, but follows the plot only loosely. Mark is based roughly on Nina, and Eduardo occupies the same position as Lily but doesn't actually have much to do with her.

The bathroom is full of feathers.

They fall from the roof in thick black clouds, tumbling through the air, too heavy and numerous to drift. Eduardo steps into the room. His footsteps are silent. His feet are bare. Beneath them, he can feel the stems of the feathers breaking.

He had lost something. He cannot remember what, but he knows he will find it here.

He reaches behind him to shut the door. As he does so, he sees something dark pass across the mirror.

He turns, but there is nothing there, only the feathers dropping from the sky in an endless black wave, and then the creature, where it should be, standing behind him with its teeth bright red.

* * *

 

Eduardo wakes with a start.

His skin is clammy. He pushes his blankets to the edge of the mattress, then sits up, curls his hand into a fist, and presses his knuckles into his ribcage to stop his heart from pounding.

The reddish light spilling through his curtains is not yet bright enough to hurt his eyes. The room is cast in shadows which shift slightly as the branches outside his window wave, but he resists the urge to turn on his bedside lamp. He is twenty-two, and no longer a child. He can’t allow himself to get caught up in his own head.

He has been having the dream for two weeks now. It is nothing, only a nightmare which refuses to die because he can’t convince himself not to be frightened.

In the dreams, he is never afraid. He only starts to feel ill when he wakes.

He pushes his fingers into his temples, then swings himself off the bed and and walks into his bathroom, past the white suitcase leaning against the wall.

The bathroom is perfectly normal -- four white walls, a mirror which reflects nothing but the room beyond his own pale face, and a combination shower-bath. He walks to the sink and splashes water onto his face to wake himself up, then picks up his shaving cream and razor.

It is May, the start of spring. Yesterday, he saw a red-tailed robin hopping through the park, its slender legs pushing aside stalks of tender green grass. He took it as a sign of good luck.

In six hours, he will be getting on a plane to travel ten hours from Russia to New York, where he will dance with the esteemed and controversial Sean Parker. He will have a flat to live in, a job he loves, and a roommate he has never met.

“The dream means nothing,” he tells his reflection in Portuguese accented slightly from disuse. It’s his first language, but he’s been living in Moscow since he was fifteen, and the sounds are mostly memories he renews with his parent’s voices. “You will dance, and you will be useful to the company. That is all that matters.”

He holds his own eyes for a moment -- they are dark and wet and still wide -- then winces.

He’s nicked the edge of his jaw. Eduardo touches the cut with his forefinger, looking for a moment at the red that curls along the lines of his fingerprint. Then, with a irritated twitch of his shoulders, he pushes his hand beneath the tap and lets the water wash it away.

The bleed was so slight that it doesn’t so much as stain the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's not supposed to be a soul-searching question, but Eduardo looks down, tugging at the hem of his wet dress shirt. He bites his lip, eyebrows furrowing, then looks back up. "Do you ever worry that you've wasted your entire life following a track that was built for you?"_
> 
> _Mark frowns. "The Moscow Ballet is not a track that was built for anyone."_

On the night Saverin is due to arrive, Mark is perched on his bed with his mother beside him. He's staring at his hand, trying to mould it into a more beautiful shape. Something less awkward, less like the ungainly mess of the rest of him. 

The rain which lashes at his windows looks less like water than like dark roots spiralling downwards. The sallow streetlights cast undulating shadows on his walls. If concentrates, he can see strange black things flickering at the edges of his vision. Sometimes they're more present than others, but they're always there, a dark possibility closing in. 

Mostly he doesn't think about it. The doctor says it's nothing to worry about.   

"Darling," his mother says. "You're working too hard. You've been doing this for over an hour --"

Mark bites the inside of his cheek. His hand positions are horrible. He knows this because Sean Parker told him yesterday, as Mark was walking out of his office, his skin still hot where Sean had touched it. He'd said it in the same helpful voice he always uses, as if the information that Mark is inadequate was a gift that he was kindly providing. And it was a gift, really, because for a month now he's been hinting at the possibility of a grand new role -- not to everyone, just to Mark, which means he's important to Sean and therefore more important than anyone else.  
  
Sean is the director of their company, and he's also ... he matters to Mark, for reasons that he chooses not to interrogate. Mark doesn't disappoint him, that's all. 

"It's important," he tells her. "Just because you never --"  
  
The doorbell echoes through his apartment, sharp and bright. That's probably for the best. He doesn't mean the nasty things he sometimes thinks about his mother. 

She stands up. He watches her go. Moving feels beyond him. His limbs are so heavy, always, except when he dances. 

Mark's mother is a slender woman, but built solid in a way that reminds him of waterfowl. When she was young, she danced in the New York Ballet, but then she had Mark and now she doesn't dance anymore. She has given up her entire life to take care of him, for which he is grateful. For which she reminds him, frequently, that he ought to be grateful. 

Saverin will be taking over what they politely call the guest room, but which is effectively her room. It's full of her things -- her clothes, her pencils, her charcoal drawings. She has her own apartment, but she's usually here instead. She has to watch out for him. He can't be trusted on his own. The apartment is small, though, and once Saverin moves in she won't be able to sleep here anymore, or make Mark breakfast, or shake him awake so he can drag himself to practise in the early hours of the morning. He can't decide if he's excited or terrified. 

Everything will be different, tomorrow.  

It was Sean who brokered this particular arrangement, the thing with Eduardo-Saverin-the-genius-from-Russia. Convenient, he'd pointed out, that Mark had an extra room while the newest member of their company was desperate for one. He's still not certain if Sean is actually looking out for Saverin, or if he's just trying to oust Mark's mother from the apartment. Certainly, things would be easier for them if his mother wasn't constantly fluttering around him, monitoring who comes in and out of his bedroom. On the other hand, he's aware that their company is desperate for real talent, not just the scattered rejects-with-potential that it's currently composed of. 

Mark sighs. It's all confusing and his mind is so sluggish. He pushes himself off the bed, ignoring the dizziness that greets him as he rises. Because his mother had insisted that it would be inappropriate to greet his new roommate in his pyjamas, he is dressed in grey sweatpants and a black hoodie. He even washed his face.  
  
He's trying. Really. He is.

He shoves one hand into the pocket of his hoodie and slumps after her. 

By the time he gets there, she's already got the door open. The man in the hallway is soaked through, his hair plastered to his face, his clothes dripping into the tessellated carpet. He's holding a white suitcase -- a dangerous colour, Mark thinks, noting that the fabric is marked with grey tracks from its stint in the luggage compartment. 

"... a little grumpy right now," his mother is saying, "but he's a good boy, normally."  
  
Mark walks around the corner. Saverin, seeing him, lifts his head. He smiles. His teeth are bright white.

"Mom," Mark says, "are you talking to him about me? Stop it. I've got this."

His mother turns to him, then twists her hands together.   
  
"You've got places to be," Mark tells her. "You have like ... that thing. Whatever. Dinner. With that friend of yours. You should go to it. I'll be fine." 

She smiles, her eyes crinkling. "I know," she says, "but I could cancel. I worry. You're delicate, Mark."  
  
He shrugs. He knows that. Everyone keeps telling him. 

She squeezes his shoulders -- he tries not to flinch at the touch -- then takes her coat from the rack at the door.  
  
Saverin's eyes follow her, his brows furrowed as if he's trying to figure something out. It's the way people look at dark shapes on the road, ones that might be dead animals or garbage bags, a mystery until you get up close. Mark stares at him until he looks up, flushes pink, and turns away. 

His mother stands. She takes in a heavy breath. "Be good, Mark. Don't forget to offer him something to eat." 

"Go. You'll be late."

With one last, anxious look at him, she spins and leaves. The door falls shut behind her. 

Then they're alone, him and Saverin in the solitude of his apartment. 

The fan whirrs. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the building he can hear water rumbling through the pipes, the sound congealing into the noise of the rain. Mark takes his hand out of his pocket to tug the string of his hoodie. The aglets are rough from all the times he's chewed them. 

Saverin shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes are flicker around the house. Mark looks him up and down.

He's a narrow man, with broad shoulders but a thin waist. A dancer's body -- they're all built like that, even Mark, underneath his hoodie. The rain has plastered his shirt to his skin, so Mark can see the line of his powerful muscles beneath the slate grey fabric. His hair is dark and his eyes are nearly black. He has very thick, full eyebrows that make him look serious and worried. 

Mark tongues the inside of his mouth, then shrugs. 

Saverin laughs. It's a short sound, caught somewhere between defensive and hysterical. "Did I pass?" 

Mark looks up, lifting his eyebrows. 

Saverin swallows. He looks embarrassed. "I mean, sorry, that probably didn't make any sense. It just felt like you were eyeing me up. Which -- I'm sorry. I am so sleep-deprived. I'm not usually this rude."  
  
Mark feels the corner of his lip curve upwards, involuntarily. "Yeah," he says. "You'll do." 

* * *

 

He gives Saverin a cursory tour of the apartment, by means of jabbing his thumb at various parts of the flat as they pass by on their way to the bedroom. There's not much to show -- there's the living room, a kitchenette, a bathroom with terrible water pressure, and the narrow hallways which lead to both of their rooms. 

Eduardo's room has got a door, but Mark's doesn't. After his mother insisted that this state of affairs would not be sustainable once Saverin moved in, he'd tacked up some old black sheets to form a makeshift curtain. Eduardo gives those a sideways look as Mark pushes open the door to the guest room.  

Until yesterday, it was where his mother stayed, so it's painted in girlish colours -- one wall a deep plum, the rest rust brown. Or so he's been told, anyway. It all looks yellow to him. There are prints of Renaissance angels on the walls, and charcoal drawings of his own face. He's her muse, she says. 

It's dark and cramped and smells a little bit like mothballs. A window opens onto the street, but the blackout curtains are drawn now, so Mark fumbles for the light switch until he gets the wall lamp on. Its shade turns everything a dusky orange. 

"This is nice," says Saverin. He's probably lying, but who knows? It's tiny and cramped, but maybe he lived in a complete shack before. Mark twirls the string of his hoodie around his index finger. 

"So," Mark says. "Russia, yeah?"  

Saverin nods. "Russia," he confirms. "It was, um. It was good. It was a really excellent place to learn important classical skills." He sounds like he's speaking from a pamphlet. "I haven't heard much of you," he goes on, conversationally. He's blinking a lot. "Where did you study?" 

Mark stares at him. Saverin's eyes go wide, and he lifts a hand, as if he's about to cover up his mouth. Instead, he flutters his fingers and drops them back to his side. It looks very much like a habit he's forced himself to unlearn.

"Oh, god," he says. "That sounded awful. I don't mean -- I'm not saying you aren't -- I'm just not very up to date with American ballet. I'm sure --"

"Junior PRANCE," says Mark, lifting his eyebrows. "Which is not an excellent place to learn important classical skills. Sean has ... unusual hiring policies. You're probably the most conventional hire in the company." This isn't exactly true, but he's certainly the most prestigious. "So what are you doing here instead of in the Moscow Ballet?" 

 It's not supposed to be a soul-searching question, but Eduardo looks down, tugging at the hem of his wet dress shirt. He bites his lip, eyebrows furrowing, then looks back up. "Do you ever worry that you've wasted your entire life following a track that was built for you?"

Mark frowns. "The Moscow Ballet is not a track that was built for anyone." 

"No, I don't mean --" He looks stricken. "I mean ... I mean, Sean --  I've been following his company. He does strange things. He takes leaps that other people would consider too risky to bother with. I mean, I've seen some recordings, and some of them are terrible --" He looks confused again, as if he's unsure whether or not he's being offensive. Mark almost laughs. Saverin looks exhausted. The bags beneath his eyes are shallow -- clearly, he's not used to being up this late. 

 "-- but when it works, it's -- it's like nothing you've ever seen before," Saverin finishes. "It -- it justifies everything. I want to be a part of that. Something that, that isn't just beautiful, something that's willing to look ugly in service of something higher." 

It's a neat speech. It sounds heartfelt. Mark almost believes it.

Except he doesn't, because the Moscow Ballet does all those things, too. They just do it for better pay, and with more people watching. Whatever its detractors like to say, ballet isn't an art form bound by convention, and its hardly stagnant. You don't have to hunt down a strange, experimental little company to find something wondrous. 

But he's not here to interrogate Saverin. He's supposed to play nice. Tonight, he'll let it go. Tomorrow, maybe not. Mark shrugs. "So. Risk taking. That's cool. Do you want something dry to sleep in?"

"Your mom said there was an onsite laundry?" 

Mark flicks his eyes towards the door. "Sure, but it's downstairs, and frankly I don't want to risk running into the neighbours. Besides, it's forty minutes in the wash and an hour in the dryer. You'd fit into my sweatpants fine, and my shirts aren't exactly fitted. Hold on." 

He ducks out of the room and grabs the first loose T-shirt and pair of sweatpants he fishes out of his own wardrobe. After a moment's consideration, he picks up a pair of boxers, too, figuring why the hell not. They have pictures of cats on them. 

When he gets back, Saverin is sitting on the bedspread, looking concerned. He looks up as Mark enters. 

"I'm not really a risk-taker," he says, immediately. 

Mark gives him the once-over again. Tightly gelled hair, albeit wrecked from the rain, dress clothes for a plane flight. He has to admit that Saverin doesn't look like one, but he can't see why it would matter. He hasn't got anything against risk-takers. He hasn't got anything against people who aren't, either, except that they're frequently boring. 

He pokes his tongue against the inside of his mouth. "So you're trying something new. Whatever." He's curious as to what exactly makes a man in a button-up on a Tuesday risk a cross-continental move from one of the most prestigious companies in the world to work in Parker's weird experimental company, but it's late and Saverin looks just about ready to spill his soul, and Mark is far too tired to pick it up again. 

He tosses Saverin the shirt, pants and underwear.

Saverin smiles. He unfolds the T-shirt and laughs. "This is completely ridiculous," he says. It's heathered grey, with a declaration screen-printed onto it. Saverin reads it out loud. "2016 hot-dog eating champion?" 

Mark looks at him. 

"Where did you get this?" 

Mark tips his head sideways. "In 2016." 

Saverin's eyebrows furrow. At last, he looks up. "So, how many?" 

Mark lifts his eyebrows. Then he grins, the expression taking over his mouth before he can do anything about it. "Thirty-nine," he says, then spins and walks out the door before Saverin can say anything else.

 


End file.
